Discordance
by Gaerwn
Summary: Another piece of the Staff brings Castiel back down to earth.   Season six AU, set after 6.03
1. Chapter 1

**Discordance**  
_Author: Kel_  
_Rating | Pairing: PG-13/T, bordering on M for horror imagery and violence | Gen_  
_Summary: Another piece of the Staff brings Castiel back down to earth._  
_Notes | Warning: Set in a season six AU that draws elements from canon. There is still demonic blackmail but there is also a soul. Basically, Heaven's war comes to earth and Team Free Will must once again do the impossible. Expect more a series of stories set in this AU season six; this is just once piece of an entire universe.

* * *

_

"Toll for the brave – The brave! that are no more: All sunk beneath the wave, fast by their native shore."  
-William Cowper

* * *

He had hoped that his days of being hunted were over, that he could be the hunter this time around. He shouldn't have been so naive and he knew full well that relaxing – even the tiniest fraction, as he had – could be fatal. Almost was, this time around. Castiel flicked blood off the short silver sword he held and rolled his neck, a habit he'd picked up from his days as almost-human. The shadows across the floor were lengthening; evening had come upon him more quickly than he'd expected. Apparently (and even his thoughts held a wry tone) time had a way of slipping by when one was fighting to survive another day.

The house was a mess, but that was to be expected after three angels had fought there. Castiel reached down and pulled an end table back to its original position, then sifted through the papers that had been dumped when it was overturned. What he wouldn't give for just one venture for information on missing weapons to go smoothly. This one, of course, had not; he shouldn't be surprised. Everyone was after Heaven's missing weapons. For just a moment, what was now familiar anger and disappointment welled up in Castiel. He'd hoped for so much better from the angels. Blind faith had its disadvantages, Castiel reflected as he perused the torn envelopes and crumpled letters. It could and often did lead to bitter, bitter disappointment.

Castiel put the sheathed the sword and knelt, hands smoothing out a crumpled letter on the end table. It looked like nothing special, with no header and written in a hand that held no elegance. Castiel's brow furrowed as he read and he finally just snorted and carefully folded the letter. He was fairly certain the letter referenced a few things he'd been looking for, but he couldn't be completely sure. He slipped the letter into an inside jacket pocket. He could take it to someone who understood the thing. The language, he understood; the intent was beyond him. Still kneeling, he looked around the dim and blood-splattered room. The people who had lived in this house were dead – torn apart by madness that Castiel was fairly certain came from a heavenly weapon – but perhaps what they left behind would provide some insight.

The rest of the letters were nothing; they simply seemed to be demands for money for services rendered and contained none of the keywords Castiel had been looking for. He dropped them on the end table and pushed to his feet. The dull ache that had settled under his left shoulder blade sharpened as he straightened. Castiel didn't wince, but he did allow brief, intense irritation cross his features. That had been a close hit, far too close for Castiel's liking. He'd twisted at the last moment and the silver blade had slid into his back at a sharp angle. The wound wouldn't heal quite as quickly as he'd like, but it was to be expected, nor was it a problem. He'd just have to be more aware of his surroundings in the future; he refused to be ambushed again. Carefully, he rolled his shoulder, feeling the blood well as the edges of the gash pulled. Wonderful. It would heal, though, before too long.

Something just brushed the edges of his perception; Castiel stood still and straight, sluggishly bleeding wound forgotten. He was on edge, after being rather forcefully reminded that angels still wanted his head. Raphael's vessel may have been destroyed, but he was still fully capable of giving orders. Castiel unsheathed his sword quietly and waited. He could afford patience here; whatever it was, it was coming closer. He half-turned to face it, sword spinning in his hand, and was met with nothing.

That couldn't be right.

Castiel took a half step backward, eyes narrowed as he looked at the spot where his senses screamed something should be. It couldn't be. His sense were never _that_ wrong. He gave the open doorway a wary look before letting his gaze wander across the room.

It was the same: broken coffee table, up-ended recliner, a couch torn by an angelic blade. Two of his brethren lay among the torn flesh of what had once been human. Dried, flaking blood decorated the far wall, arcing in a broad, splattered crescent across a family photo that, amazingly, still hung straight. Dust hung in the dimming sunlight. It was calm, still, and yet Castiel perceived _something_ moving through the debris.

Castiel traded his sword to his left hand and picked up what was left of a table lamp with his right. Angelic senses were screaming at him and yet he couldn't see well enough to pinpoint the intruder. He waited; he'd sense it when it moved and he doubted it would out-stubborn him. When it moved, somehow slinking over debris that should be disturbed in its wake, Castiel snapped into action. He threw the lamp – because he refused to throw his only real weapon – and blinked in surprise when his sight and his senses continued to war with each other. It seemed the lamp simply crashed to the floor. Castiel, however, heard something very different. An otherworldly growl filled the room, sharpening to a harsh snarl. Claws slid across the tarnished wood floor. Castiel stepped sideways, putting his back toward the wall, and brought the sword to guard.

Something was lying to him and he rather thought it wasn't angelic senses. So what was trying to blind him here?

And then he couldn't spare the time to think about it anymore. Claws scraped against the wooden floor and that constant growling became a roar. Castiel, his blade reversed, dropped into a crouch and swung his arm up in front of him. He felt the heavy weight hit the blade, felt it try to drive him back, felt it straining against his arm, but saw absolutely nothing. No, that wasn't quite true. He knew it was there, could almost make out the lines of its body but it was as if his human vessel's senses simply refused to see what his angelic senses were seeing. It was more than simply troubling, to know something could interfere with his perception in such a way.

Later, he'd think on it, when this thing wasn't trying to claw past his arm to take off his head.

Castiel grunted, managed to plant his foot in the place where the floor met the wall, and shoved forward. Whatever it was went tumbling backward; Castiel could hear it skidding across the floor. Heard claws scraping for purchase. Even heard it growling and snarling as it rolled. No debris in the house moved, though, and none of the dried blood (or fresh, in the case of his dead brothers) was disturbed. Castiel didn't bother trying to follow; it would be a fool's errand now. Confused and warring senses gave him conflicting information, and the presence seemed to flicker in his consciousness. For a moment, he thought he saw it clearly – sleek black skin, diamond-hard claws, a mouthful of teeth, and dead yellow eyes – but it was gone again in that moment.

It didn't come back.

Brow furrowed, Castiel straightened, sword still hanging loosely from his fingers. Nothing should have confused him quite like this thing did. His gaze drifted to the torn bodies. According to police reports (and Castiel was sure he knew of a few of his brothers and sisters that would look at him askance for bothering to rifle through such reports), these people had turned on each other. Unexpectedly brutal for a family that stood as pillars in their neighborhood, this sort of crime would have rocked even the foundations of a far less stable community. Now, though, he gave the bodies a closer look. Perhaps something less human had murdered these people.

His senses were still on overdrive when he knelt beside what was left of the nearest body. He found himself wrinkling his nose at the smell. It didn't make him nauseous; it never would, but he found it unpleasant. The sights and the sounds – the ripped flesh, pools of blood and torn organs, the way the toe of his shoe slipped a fraction on something that should never be stepped on, the squelching beneath his heels – did not bother him. They never did. It was always the smell that affected him; it was negligible, barely noticeable, but enough to make an impression.

Castiel balanced his sword across his knee and reached down to grasp the dead girl's wrist. She had been young, barely on the cusp of adulthood. Blonde, a glance at the tufts of blood-matted hair told him, and meticulous about her appearance.

"Alice," Castiel murmured. Her name, according to the police reports. She'd hated the name but refused to say much about it, since she'd been named for her grandmother. He pulled her wrist up, barely paying attention as the bones in her forearm grated and twisted at the movement. What had once been neatly manicured nails were shorn and ragged. Blood and tissue that weren't hers coated her hands and wrists. Castiel wasn't exactly well-versed in forensics, but the police reports had indicated that these weren't defensive. They didn't look it. For all appearances, this family had torn itself apart, quite literally, with no help from hellbeasts that evaded even an angel.

Castiel sat her wrist back down, shook blood from his fingers, and, still crouching, looked up. Almost absently, he took the hilt of his sword, and then rested his wrists on his knees for a moment. What he wouldn't give for more information here. Or – here he snorted – a better understanding of human forensics. To his eyes, which were admittedly not that reliable right now, that beast didn't do this.

So why was it here now?

Castiel stood. He closed human eyes and simply let himself _feel_. For a moment, the world was his; he felt _everything_. A prayer brushed against him there, a desperate plea for encouragement there, peace and fear and desperation mingled together, a heady cocktail that had him lifting his chin in determination as he sorted through it all. That… that was too much. How in the _hell_ had that happened? He was spread too thin, hearing too much, seeing _everything_. Castiel struggled to narrow his scope, to remind himself that he stood in a modest home in western New York.

Sensation after sensation rolled over him, unending and relentless. Desperation. Anger. Hate. All-encompassing rage mingled with love and jealousy. It overwhelmed him. It left him clawing for purchase, trying to pull back, trying simply focus on the one thing he'd been looking for. He needed… He needed… What did he need?

The river. The lake. The flatlands on the edge of the lake. The rushing falls. The traffic in the city. The towering structure the overlooking the falls. Focus. Focus. Castiel shoved the overwhelming, too-many sensations aside as best as he was able and looked into the falls. Heard the rushing sound.

It wasn't enough. He needed a smaller focus.

His focus shifted. There was a woman standing at the bridge, her fingers curling tightly around the railing. Hopelessness. A man, full of nothing but despondency, walked behind her, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. A peal of laughter rang out, sharp and grating and so damned happy. It would be that girl's only happy moment for some time to come.

Castiel's perception widened again, overwhelmed by the sheer humanity pressing in on him from all sides. In desperation, he clawed for the water again and the roar of the falls was too much like the mad cries of a man drowning in rage. Castiel felt his own panic giving way to anger; when he spoke, his voice held command. Not fear. Never fear.

_Stop_.

And it did.

The falls were silent, still, in that moment. Castiel stood amidst a suddenly still maelstrom, surrounding by emotion he'd only begun to understand. Anger, rage, desperation, determination, friendship, loyalty, betrayal… and fear. Fear everywhere, all around him, threading through it all. Touching him. Surrounding him.

He raised a hand, reaching through the muddied emotion and toward the falls. A single drop, part of the spray floating in the air, hung before him. He just brushed it, and then stared at it on the tip of his finger. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, reveling in the single, simple feel of water on his fingertips. Castiel turned then and ran his fingers through the still falls.

And it all moved again.

Castiel _snapped_ back to himself, physically recoiling at the sensation. He bent forward, hands on his knees, and simply breathed. He didn't need to, not really, but he'd found that the act of focusing on something so very simple had a profound effect upon mood. In this case, distress would be eased. Hopefully. This was strange and so very new to him, but then, Castiel specialized in finding his way through new things.

Physical sensations were identified and cataloged quickly and without pause: vessel's heart beating too fast, heavy weight settled on his chest, pressure behind his eyes that could perhaps be the beginning of a headache, darkness rimming the edges of his vision. Senses still on overdrive, Castiel straightened and pinched the bridge of his nose. Now he could at least filter out extraneous human prayer and emotion. His brethren's incessant chattering was certainly not helping him right now though.

Why were they so_ loud?_

The pressure behind his eyes turned to throbbing. There was a part of him that marveled at how much he wanted his brethren to be silent when, once upon a time, he'd suffered through their silence. Liwet and Tabris fought again, so loudly that it was all Castiel could hear in that moment – and he welcomed it. So be it if fighting helped him focus; he'd take it. Sophia taught temperance and Castiel had a moment when he snarled at her intervention.

In that moment, attention was on him.

Angels didn't express emotion, not like humanity, but Castiel could still feel the waves of confusion and not-concern that settled on him. On the heels of the angels' attention came the tumultuous storm of human emotion. Beyond that lay the earth itself: rushing rivers, pounding rain, predator and prey, life. Just life in all its loud, chaotic glory.

Its weight drove Castiel to his knees, one hand clapped over an ear, the other sliding in the blood coating the floor. His vision swam, darkness pushing in from the edges. Ghostly figures surrounded him, weaving through the debris and blood before him. Some screamed. Some cried. Some simply spoke. None were silent. He squeezed his eyes shut in a futile effort to shut out something, anything; maybe if he couldn't see the torn open corpses, he couldn't hear their souls screaming.

The sheer volume overwhelmed him. It reached a crescendo, until it wasn't a collection of separate noise anymore; just one impossibly loud, tangible roar. Castiel ground his teeth together, swallowed hard against the pressure that had turned to pain behind his eyes, and curled his fingers on the floor. Blood flaked under his blunt nails.

_Cas?_

Oh, God. Oh, Father, not another voice. Somewhere, dimly making its way through the roaring, one simple voice cut through it all. A familiar voice, with a familiar nickname.

_Dunno if you're still listening…_

Oh, he was. He was. He heard it all. He heard too much. The voice faded in and out, lost and then rising again from the chaos.

_…think we got a lead…_

Castiel's hand drifted from his ear to his forehead. He pressed the heel of his hand against it, hoping in vain that he could ease the pain there. Dean; he should listen. He was trying to listen. It… hurt to listen.

_Flamingo Motel in Erie, if you still need directions._

He shouldn't go now. There was an unspoken rule, one Castiel did his level best to abide by and one he'd never broken: He did not show up in anything less than able and willing to help the Winchesters. That's how it was and how it would always be.

And, yet…

Castiel grunted and nearly pitched forward as wave upon wave of humanity living life, angels fighting over their right to live that life, and the earth itself teeming with activity crashed over him. It was tangible, physical, pressing down on him until he wasn't sure he could draw a breath under the crushing weight. He dropped his hand to the floor, fingers desperately roaming until he found his silver sword. Something cold and sinewy brushed his wrist, something else – ghostly hands – settled on his shoulders and pushed. He could hear them speaking, hear growling and snarling coming ever closer. His hand tightened around the sword.

He couldn't stay. Not like this. He'd go, find a place to be alone, regroup, and then find the Winchesters.

Castiel, eyes still tightly shut, lashed out, his sword flashing in a tight arc around him. He was silent as he moved, unwilling to add to the chaos. He went to _move_, to fly away, and found himself caught. Unable to focus enough to even find where he was going, Castiel instead stumbled backward and latched onto the only location he could think of.

_Erie. Erie. Erie. Not far. Be there soon. Erie. Erie._

He flew blindly, still clutching his sword.

* * *

"You sure about this?"

Dean's grunt could hardly be called an answer, but Sam took it for what it was: _Don't question your older brother, numbnuts._

Sam threw him a look and settled into the passenger seat of the Impala sullenly. "I'm going to assume that you at least have some idea about this. I mean, honestly, Cas didn't give us a lot of information on Heaven's missing weapons."

"It's a working theory." Dean's voice was tight, and Sam huffed at him.

"It's only been a couple hours, man. He has a war." Sam's voice dropped an octave on the last word, fingers rising to give Dean his best impression of Castiel's air-quotes.

Dean glanced at him, his gaze absolutely withering. "You almost sound like you're trying to be encouraging." When Sam didn't answer, Dean shook his head once and went back to watching the road. "You're mistaking anger for worry."

Once upon a time, Sam might have called him on that, but today he just shrugged. There were many things Dean was, but Sam was actually fairly certain that he was simply angry this time.

Dean kept speaking. "He asked us to be on the lookout for these things. You'd think the bastard would bother answering when we actually have information." Dean maneuvered the Impala through tight right turn into a shopping center, grimacing at the close quarters and snarling as another driver cut him off. Unable to turn the car quite sharply enough to avoid an impact, Dean stepped on the brakes, rocking the entire car, and gave the other driver a heavy glare. "Dude. Are you kidding me?" And then he inched the Impala forward anyway, not even bothering with the horn and letting the big, black car speak for him.

Yeah, Dean was in a bad mood. Sam rolled his eyes heavenward and sat back for the long haul on this one. It would end badly if the other driver didn't back off in the next, oh, three seconds or so. Perhaps the other driver actually had a modicum of sense; he backed his Hyundai off and allowed Dean to continue his right turn. The driver of the Hyundai opened his window and his mouth; Dean very casually flipped him off and kept driving.

"Feel better?"

"Shut up, Sam."

Sam shut up for all of five seconds before he spoke again. "You hitting the drive-thru or what?"

"I'm dropping you off at the grocery store. You're getting stuff. I'm getting food and then picking you up."

"And so help me if I'm late?"

"You got it." Dean stopped the Impala at the door of the grocery. "Don't forget the beer," he muttered as Sam unfolded his tall frame from the passenger side of the car. "And we need a couple more things of salt; we're running low."

"Dude. I know." Sam pushed the door closed. "I even have a list."

For a moment, Dean was silent, not even looking in Sam's direction. He snorted, rolled his eyes, and glanced at Sam. "Just get the stuff."

"Get a burger," Sam returned, "before you get hungry enough to be pissy."

Dean didn't answer; he put the car in gear and drove away, making his way toward the closest fast food he could find. Looked like Burger King for them. Finest dining in Erie, he was sure. The restaurant – if one could really call it that – sat in the corner of a plaza across the street from the grocery store. Dean pulled up to a stoplight, leaned back against the seat, and drummed his fingers on the wheel as he waited for green. He grunted, sighed, and shifted, then finally peered up at the sky through the windshield.

"Seriously, Cas? You gonna leave me hanging here?"

A horn sounded behind him and Dean jumped, blinking at the light. Oh, green. For a moment, he was inclined to just sit there and let the guy who'd honked at him stew but Dean wasn't big on waiting for the sake of making someone else wait. Why punish himself? He was hungry, goddamn it. He hit the gas, wheels spinning as he rocketed across the intersection. The Impala spun around when he was in the parking lot across the street, back end spinning around as Dean expertly guided it to a harsh stop. He didn't bother getting out yet; he had a conversation he had to continue and hell if he wanted to walk into Burger King while talking to himself.

"Calling Castiel. Earth to Castiel. You wanna answer yet? I got something you need to look into. You remembering that conversation we had? You know, where I told you to fucking answer me when I called you. Yeah, that one. Well, start answering, you bastard. I can't leave this godforsaken town until you get down here and look into this."

Dean waited. Just… waited. He was met with silence. Not that he expected much else. With a grunt, Dean shoved his door open and made his way toward the restaurant. Maybe they'd get back to the motel and find Castiel waiting on them; he'd given the angel the room number in his earlier prayer.

Still felt damned weird to pray to Castiel.

Dean was reaching for the door when the low voice echoed behind him.

"It was not my intention."

Heart attack, meet Dean Winchester. His hand clenched around the door handle and Dean very deliberately took a deep breath. One of these days when the angel did that, Dean would turn around and deck him one. Probably hurt himself in the process but hell if Castiel didn't deserve it. "What wasn't?"

The answer was, for once, rather prompt. "To leave you hanging."

Dean glanced over his shoulder at Castiel, eyebrows rising at the admission. That was almost an apology and probably the closest he'd ever really get from the angel. "Car." Later, he'd ask. He might even comment on that more rumpled than normal look Castiel was sporting.

Castiel cocked his head to the side, his eyes sliding over to the Impala just a few spaces away.

Dean sighed, then elaborated. "Wait by the car. Sam and I haven't eaten yet today and hell if I'm delaying food just because you decided to show up now."

For a moment, Castiel was still – and looked beyond unimpressed, judging by the flat look he gave Dean – but then he turned to the Impala and made a show of settling in to lean against the quarter panel. Dean snorted and walked into the restaurant.

Castiel was left to wait. It wasn't long, though; for as much as Dean was annoyed with Castiel delaying, he didn't want to return the favor. A few burgers and fries to go in hand, and Dean made his way back to the Impala. He didn't say a word as he jerked his door open and dropped the bag of takeout in the seat. He straightened and finally took a good long look at Castiel, just in case.

He'd never admit to being worried, but like Sam had said, mockingly or not, Castiel was in a war. One checked on buddies in war, didn't they? Something like that. Hell if he knew. At any rate, Castiel was looking rumpled: his ever-present coat was a tad askew, his tie just a little looser than normal. He was leaning against the car, rather than standing stiffly, and he had his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looked tired. Dean hadn't seen that since those days before Lucifer went back into the Cage.

"So what kept you?" Dean asked, tone light. He knew from experience; if he started in on Castiel now, there'd be an angel zapping out in a huff and they'd have to start this all over.

Castiel looked up, blinking slowly, and gave Dean an unimpressed glare. "It hasn't been three hours."

"You admitted that you left me hanging. Wasn't your intention, remember?"

Rather than argue the point, Castiel simply tore his gaze from Dean and looked up at the sky, eyes blank. "I was near; gathering information on what might be a piece of the Staff. Raphael's followers had apparently heard of it too."

Dean nodded slowly. That did explain some things, especially if those 'followers' had taken it upon themselves to delay Castiel. "Speaking of, that's what we wanted to talk to you about. We picked up a few cases here that we thought might be related to the Staff."

Castiel's gaze sharpened at that. "Tell me."

Checking his watch, Dean shrugged. "We're in room 12 at the Flamingo. Meet us there in twenty minutes and we'll compare notes. I gotta feeling that if we're all following leads on the Staff, there's probably something worth looking into around here."

Castiel pushed himself off the car and nodded once. "Twenty minutes."

"Don't be late this time."

Castiel didn't answer; he'd already zapped out.

* * *

Sam was annoyed. Beyond simply annoyed, really, but there wasn't really much he could say or do about it, all things considered. Dean had gone to bitching about the brand of salt he'd picked up and that was the point where Sam threw up his hands, snagged the burger Dean had for him, and proceeded to stuff his face, sitting half-sprawled on one of the beds in the dimly lit motel room. Sam let the silence go for all of about three minutes before he spoke. "What's got your panties in a bunch?"

He was rewarded with a glare. Sam raised a brow and simply took a bite of his burger. He knew this game; he played it just as well as Dean did. Dean only snorted at him and checked his watch.

Things were silent for a moment before Dean bit out a curse and slammed what was left of his burger down on the table.

"Uh, Dean?"

Dean wasn't even looking at him when he spoke. "It's been almost an hour."

All right. Now Sam was officially confused. He swallowed the last of his burger and straightened. "Hour since when?"

This time, Dean turned to face him. "Ran into Cas while I was getting burgers. Told him to meet us here in twenty minutes."

Frowning, Sam crumpled up his wrapper and tossed it over toward the table. It skittered across the tarnished wood and fell to the floor on the other side. Dean was angry, that much was plain. Sam was skipping anger and going straight to worry. "You told him what we had?"

"Told him we had a lead on a weapon," Dean snapped. "He was pretty insistent we talk."

"He say anything about holding us up?"

This time it was Dean mocking Castiel. "It wasn't his intention to keep us waiting."

Sam stood up and made his way across the room. As he bent to pick up the wrapper he'd tossed, he hummed quietly.

"What's with the thinking noise?"

Sam shrugged, picked up the wrapper, and straightened. "He didn't say what kept him?"

Dean echoed the shrug. "He mentioned something about investigating a piece of the staff. Said he was near, but nothing more."

There was silence for a moment before Sam spoke again. "You think the same thing held him up?"

Dean sat heavily, as if Sam's question had completely drained him. "You saying something?"

"I'm saying it's a piece of the staff. That thing's pretty powerful."

Silence again, before Dean opened his mouth. "Cas said Raphael's goons heard about it, too."

"So he's late, he's following some lead about a powerful weapon, and Raphael's goons are somewhere around."

"You know, if you're gonna say something, you might as well just say it." Dean leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You worried?"

Sam snorted. "I'm just saying, man. There's a lot out there could have held him up."

"Yeah, well. Whatever it is, I'm getting sick of waiting." Dean reached forward and tapped a finger against the paper he'd laid on the table earlier. "He can find us. We've got a job to do. I wanna look at this place."

Sam made a face. "Gotta wait until it's dark. I am not waltzing into a high profile crime scene in the light of day."

"Especially not after regular business hours?" Dean snorted. "Can't believe those officers suspected us of being frauds when we showed up after five."

"We were frauds, Dean."

"Just goes to show. We work harder than the actual FBI."

Sam let that go and made a show of turning the paper towards him. "So. Cas?"

"Can damn well find us on his own. He's late. He can deal." With that, Dean stood, grabbed his jacket and keys and made his way for the door, hardly waiting for Sam to catch up.

It was Sam who sent up the prayer this time, a whispered message of an address as he closed the motel door.

* * *

Castiel was lost.

He thought he'd had it under control, when he'd finally found the Impala parked in a plaza in mid-town Erie. It had taken a few jumps to get there, even just from Niagara Falls. At one point, Castiel had completely overshot Erie. He thought maybe he'd landed somewhere in Ohio – he wasn't exactly sure. It had been at that point, though, that his vision had stopped swimming. Vision still edged in darkness, Castiel finally made it to Erie and, without any actual direction anymore, simply scanned the town for the tell-tale presence of the Impala.

He hadn't been surprised to find it parked outside a restaurant, all things considered.

He'd been so damned weary when Dean had ordered him to meet in twenty minutes. Part of him had wanted to take a seat in Dean's car and simply hitch a ride to the motel. He couldn't quite say he was exhausted or actually tired. He had energy. He had power. He just… couldn't seem to keep everything under control.

Something like that. He couldn't quite explain it. One minute, everything would be too loud, overwhelming him with the sheer volume of feeling. The next, there would be nothing. It was disorienting. Wearying. Castiel had once, upon waking in a hospital, felt pain and weariness overwhelm him; at that time, he'd wanted nothing more than to give in to the human desire to find a quiet, small room and do absolutely nothing. He had been rapidly approaching that point again when he'd finally found the Impala and Dean.

And then Dean had sent him off. Maybe Castiel had just been too weary to argue the point. Maybe he simply didn't want to admit that he wasn't quite up to standards. Whatever it was, Castiel had just left, without a word. Twenty minutes wasn't long to wait, not to a being who was immortal anyway.

He'd planned on spending the time in a field, looking out over the lake. What he hadn't expected was the dizzying rush of _nothing_ that overtook him while he was traveling.

He fell.

There was nothing graceful about his landing. The thought that he was lucky enough to actually land with minimal injury crossed his mind in the second between stumbling on the ground and knocking his shoulder hard against a wall. He hissed, eyes shut tightly as his hand skated across the rough wall. Brick. An outside wall, most likely. For a moment, he stayed there, hunched against the wall. His fingers curled against the brick, its rough edges thrown into sharp relief as he concentrated on them. The pain in his knees – from the shock of the landing – was harsh and so very _real_. Healing already, though, but it was as if Castiel's consciousness simply decided to focus on the pain, unbidden.

The brick scraped lightly against his palm as he pushed himself up. His other hand came up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He didn't need rest. He wasn't in pain. He just… He just didn't know.

Judging by the pressure behind his eyes, though, he might have to re-evaluate his condition. He'd had the dubious honor once last year to endure the very human affliction called a migraine. It had left him snappish, irritable, and utterly unable to stand the smallest pinprick of light. For the time he'd been holed up in Bobby Singer's house with it, every creak of the wheelchair had him snarling. This felt like it was shaping up to be worse.

He dropped his hand, risked opening his eyes, and stilled completely. Darkness no longer simply rimmed his vision; it invaded his vision. For a long moment, Castiel stared at where he knew his hand was, mind insisting that he should be seeing it. He curled his fingers into a loose fist and then let his hand fall open again – and saw none of it.

That was… disturbing. Castiel took a deep breath and let his eyes drift closed. Wasn't helping him to keep them open anyway. He kept his hand against the brick wall, letting the feel of it ground him. He had other senses; if his eyes weren't going to cooperate, that was worrying, but it wasn't anything that would keep him from functioning.

(Somewhere inside his mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Dean's said "Dude, you're rationalizing. Welcome to the human race.")

It hit Castiel suddenly: nothing came to him. No prayers. No sense of the living. No movement. Senses that had been on overdrive just a few short minutes before were suddenly gone, as if they'd just been turned off. No warning. No _reason_. Castiel's eyes flew open and he started when nothing greeted him. For a moment, he'd forgotten.

It took everything in him not to slip away in that moment. His fingers flexed against the brick; he brought up his other hand and pressed it flat against the wall. Convincing himself not to immediately fly away was… difficult. He had nowhere to go, no frame of reference for where he even _was_ and one brick wall in front of him was not helping. He was not flying blind, not again. He might do worse than stumbling into a brick wall.

But the urge to flee was far more pervasive than he thought it would be. Castiel had felt fear before, had felt it sharply when Lucifer had turned on him in those final moments last year. He'd felt despair and hopelessness and felt faith slipping away. He'd felt abandoned and he'd often wondered why he should even continue forward but he wasn't sure any of that held a candle to what he was feeling right now. He never would have thought that a lack of feeling could bring with it such emotion. He had no frame of reference for this; even slowly fading Grace still left him able to sense the things around him.

Castiel's fingertips scraped the rough brick. He huffed a breath and turned, pressing his back against the wall. At least he could still feel that. Given the way things were going, he wasn't sure how long that would last. Bitter amusement welled in him at that. When had he become so fatalistic? He swallowed; he had to control this. All of this. He couldn't let panic – that's what it was and he marveled a little at it – rule him now. Castiel forced himself to take stock of _everything_: his own vessel, the things around him, everything in his reach.

He took a moment, cataloging each racing heartbeat, each shallow, panting breath, and each tremor that shook his frame. Control himself first and perhaps he could bring the rest into focus. It was a vain hope and he knew it, but there was nothing else he could begin to hope to change and control just yet. Breathing first. He remembered that, from those first few hours of hazy awareness in the hospital. He remembered a nurse's gentle, low voice as she coaxed him to slow desperate breaths. Her voice had been husky, torn by years of cigarettes, but not unpleasant. He let that memory engulf him and let those simple words fall over him again.

_In._ Draw a breath through a closed throat. Don't force it. Wait for the hitch and try again. Eventually it would come._ Hold_. Close his eyes, his mouth, relax. Simply hold the air in his borrowed lungs for a beat, then… _Out._ Lips parted slightly, muscles as relaxed as he could manage. Don't let it go in one puff of frantic breath; simply let the air move naturally. _Again. Try again_. Again and again until he didn't have to force air into his lungs through hitching breaths. Castiel could almost feel the feather-light touch on his brow again and hear the words whispered with a hint of a smile. _Good job. Now keep going like that. You'll be fine_.

His breathing slowed, his heart calmed, and Castiel sighed. Whatever that was, he was never going through that again. That anxious wave was still there, barely held back by a thin veneer of determination. He could feel it lurking there and it was almost a relief. At least he could feel _something_. He pushed back against the wall, then shifted and called his sword into his hand. He would not be defenseless. Wherever he was and whatever was going on, he would not be defenseless.

And now… Castiel sighed and straightened. Now, it was time to figure out just what was gone and what he could still rely on. He scraped the tip of his sword against the brick, exhaling steadily when he heard the rough sound of the blade against brick. The overwhelming weight of nothing was lifting slowly, but the darkness stayed. The quiet stayed. Sound, though, started filtering in. Slowly, Castiel knelt, carefully keeping the sword in contact with the wall. He needed to feel it, needed to be grounded somehow, and that would do it. It would have to, for now. He reached out with his free hand; his hand was steady when his fingers threaded through grass.

The grass was overgrown, but not badly so, and wet from last night's drizzle. Castiel pulled his hand away and shook the water droplets from his fingers. A light breeze just touched him, a chilled caress over his cheeks and forehead. He could smell the lake in it and, a moment later, the faint sound of gentle waves lapping the shore came to him. Outside, then, and probably not far from where he planned on spending those minutes waiting. By that logic, Erie should be just to the south, slightly west.

That flood of anxiety crashed over him the very second he entertained the thought of flying there. Castiel straightened, his logical mind slowly overwhelmed by the sheer wrongness of shifting without feeling. He couldn't stay here, though. He had no other option. That didn't mean he wanted to, though. Castiel drew a deep breath, steeling himself. Short jumps, perhaps, would do what he needed. He shouldn't overshoot that way and, if he was careful and slow, he might be able to avoid unfortunate landings.

Probably wouldn't, in any case, but he was trying to rationalize here. Rationalization never really made sense.

"Hey!"

The shout jolted him from his thoughts. Castiel half-spun towards the voice, eyes wide and uncomprehending. The sword's tip scraped along the brick wall. Apparently, it drew the attention of Castiel's visitor.

"What the hell…"

That's all Castiel heard. He stepped forward and flew.

* * *

TBC::  
_I take any and all comments. Thanks for reading and I hope you've enjoyed!_


	2. Chapter 2

**_Discordance_**

_Author: Kel_

_Rating | Pairing: M for horror imagery and violence | Gen_

_Summary: Another piece of the Staff brings Castiel back down to earth._

_Notes | Warning: Set in a season six AU that draws elements from canon. There is still demonic blackmail but there is also a soul. Basically, Heaven's war comes to earth and Team Free Will must once again do the impossible. Expect more a series of stories set in this AU season six; this is just once piece of an entire universe.

* * *

_

The day was entirely too gray for mid-morning. At ten am, the sun should have burned through the fog hanging low over the murky streets. Dean smoothed his hands over the lapels of his suit jacket, wishing he could get away with grabbing the heavier leather coat from the Impala, but, no. They were FBI today, which meant they were professional. Sam didn't seem bothered in the least by the cold and wet. Dean wanted to huddle inside the Impala and never come out. With one last (and somewhat longing) look at the Impala, Dean felt he was completely justified.

Sam bumped his shoulder as he walked by. "Seriously, man?"

Dean huddled a little further inside his suit jacket. "It's cold." He stuck his hands under his armpits and gave the drizzling sky a sullen look. "One day, we'll have a winter hunt in Miami."

"Technically, it's still fall."

"Shut up, Sam."

Thankfully, he did, and Dean was able to focus on more important matters. Posing as FBI agents was one thing – they'd done it a million times before and, now, it was a matter of rote – but the worry that had settled in the back of Dean's mind was difficult to shake. Impossible, maybe. He slipped between two closely parked black-and-whites and glanced upward, snorting when the cold drizzle struck his face. It wouldn't be long before this place was covered in snow; Dean was a little surprised it wasn't already. Sometimes the lake effect snow could come in early in the winter – and no matter what Sam said, November was winter, no ifs, ands or buts. If it was cold enough to be winter, then Dean would damn wall call it as such.

The old-style brick building was imposing, its rust-red exterior taking on the look of old blood against the darkening gray sky. Not even mid-day and it looked like dusk around here; Dean suddenly _really_ wanted his heavy leather coat, if only to ward off the sudden chill traveling down his spine. "Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah, I feel it, too."

Dean glanced over his shoulder and nodded once. Sam was in full-on hunter mode, gaze swiveling from right to left as he tried to find something that could account for the ominous weight of the dim sky. Not just the sky, though, Dean thought as he looked up at the station. The brick, the mortar, the cop cars: they were all dim and imposing, somehow, like what life the colors might have had had been sucked out and only these weird, dim shells were left behind.

Dean almost expected to see the people had become apathetic, near-zombies and that was almost enough to send him scurrying back across the parking lot, back toward the Impala. (Which was, after a glance back, still thankfully gleaming black, though the chrome seemed more like dull pewter. Dean resolved to give her a good wax when he got out of this godforsaken place.) At least it wasn't just him, if Sam admitted to feeling it, too – whatever "it" could really be described as.

Their trip to the crime scene last night had been singularly unhelpful. All they'd been able to tell was that, yes, something especially brutal had happened. Fortunately, though, a bit of digging – which, honestly, wasn't too hard – gave them a handful of like cases in the area. Wouldn't be a stretch of anyone's imagination to have the FBI snooping around.

It was when Dean reached out to pull the station door open that Sam spoke again.

"We gotta talk."

Dean glanced at Sam, nodded once, and turned his attention to striding all FBI-like into the reception area. "Can't talk missing angels in the station." He opened the door then, expression instantly smoothed over into something professional and as neutral as he could manage. Sam inclined his head and followed. Yeah, they needed to talk. Dean's irritation had shot straight to worried, zero to fidgety in no time flat once Castiel hadn't met them at the scene. Sam had gone straight into research mode once they'd returned, still angel-less, to the motel room. Dean didn't need to ask to know that he was looking for any sort of sign of their wayward angel. Nothing doing, though, and they'd finally gone to bed long after eyes had started crossing in front of the computer screen.

Despite Dean being half-convinced that he'd come across empty shells of people, the station was a pretty damned lively. Sam stepped up beside Dean after he'd stumbled to a halt at the shouting, eyes a little wide. Dean blinked a few times and almost visibly shook it off. After the dearth of color outside, the sheer noise and liveliness inside was like a punch in the gut.

A good punch in the gut, as stupid as that sounded. Dean glanced at Sam, who shrugged one shoulder, then stepped forward. It was a good chance that if someone was yelling about intruders on their property, then it had something to do with their case. Coincidence never happened. The man at the counter was dirty blonde, wearing a denim jacket lined with flannel that had definitely seen better days. Heavy work gloves were stuffed haphazardly into the back pocket of his jeans; a working man, from the look of it, and a working man who sounded like he was about to take the law into his own hands, police be damned, they were worthless anyway.

In fact, he was saying just that as a weather-worn and calloused fist came down on the wooden counter. Sam reached up and scratched idly behind his ear with raised brows while Dean just watched the spectacle. An officer glanced up, mouthed something that Dean suspected was "be with you in a minute," and went back to trying to placate the man.

"Danny, we've had patrols out there all night. If there's nothing to find, there's nothing to find."

"Like _hell_ there's nothing," the man returned and even Dean blinked at the tone. Dude was pissed, that much was certain. "Some fucker was lurking around my back door-"

"Danny." The officer in charge here had clearly had enough. "We've been there – twice – and we'll keep looking. But seeing a guy on your property who didn't do nothing threatening isn't exactly big news around here right now. Now get your ass outta here before I have to bring us down on your head."

Silence fell, heavy as the dusk-like light outside, and Dean just waited for the explosion that was about to come. Danny looked positively livid, red-faced and holding his breath. But when sound came again, it was only a huffed growl and Danny turned on his heel. Sam and Dean both stepped aside as he brushed past them, too angry to care that he was about to try to bowl them both over. Dean watched him go, then turned back to the counter with one hand raised, pointing toward Danny's retreating back and a question etched into his features.

"Don't worry about him," the officer said. "What can I help you with?"

It took Dean a moment to recover enough to pull out his (fake) ID. Sam followed suit, quickly flashing the credentials and putting them back into an inside pocket before anyone could ask to look at it a little closer. It would always pass muster – Bobby was damned good at getting them authentic stuff – but they'd always rather start a meeting like this without questions of that nature. "Agents Witt and Johnston," Dean said. "Out for-"

"The DeBarra case?" The officer half-turned to pick up a memo pad. "Captain mentioned that you guys might come in on this one. Frankly, I'm glad to turn it over to you. Heard there was something like this up the road." He stuck out a hand. "Jerry Lim. I'll have someone pull those files. ME's office is off-site, but I've got all the autopsy reports here. I came up from St. Louis and worked my share of murder sites, but this one… Man, if you wanna see the bodies, I can get you an appointment."

Sam glanced at Dean, who shrugged. They would get the chatty cop. Worked for them, though. "We'll just take the reports for now," Sam said. "If there's something we need to see afterward, we'll let you know."

"Gotcha." With that, Lim barked over his shoulder at a passing officer. "Barton, I need copies of everything on the DeBarra case. Feds wanna take a look." He turned back. "You have questions before those get out here?"

Dean chucked a thumb over his shoulder, pure curiosity – and a nagging feeling that he really should follow up on this – prompting the question. "What was that all about?"

For a moment, Lim looked nonplussed, then snorted in something close to amusement. "I wouldn't worry much about it. Danny's a good guy. Hard-working and all, but a paranoid type. Claims he saw a man in a trench-coat standing next to his back door, knife in hand."

"Really?" That perked Sam up, who'd been idly looking over the lobby.

"Yeah." Here Lim shook his head. "Get this, though. He says that when he yelled at the guy, he just up and disappeared."

It took Dean a minute to find his voice. "Well, that's not strange." Hopefully, he managed a somewhat dry tone. Judging by Sam's blinking, it was at least close.

"Tell me about it," was Lim's response as a thick file came down on the desk next to him.

Barton tapped it once. "We had a couple copies made." He glanced at Sam, then Dean. "Everything's in there. I hope you figure out what the hell happened."

Dean reached out to take it, only stopping long enough for Lim to slip a business card into the file. "Cell's on there," he said. "You need something, you call. I don't have any problem handing this one over to you feds."

Sam nodded his thanks as Dean took the file, then, brow furrowed, spoke again. "Hey, where's that Danny guy live?"

Lim blinked. "Why? You wanna follow up on magic disappearing accountants, too?"

Dean forced a laugh as Sam answered. "Nah. There's just something kinda familiar about it. Can't quite put my finger on it."

Lim looked somewhat confused, but shrugged anyway. "All right." He wrote an address on a scrap of paper and handed it off to Dean. "You got a card or something? I'll let you know if there are any other reports on him." His tone clearly said he didn't expect it, but Sam handed off an official looking bureau card anyway.

Dean tipped the heavy file in an informal salute as both he and Sam turned to leave.

"Take a right when you leave," Lim called out as they reached the door. "There's a diner there. Best coffee in town."

It was Sam who called out a quick thank-you and Dean who made damned sure the door was shut before he spoke. "Guy in a trench with a knife."

"Sound familiar?" Sam rubbed his hand over his face, then sighed. "I dunno what it means, man."

Dean snorted. "Means Castiel was around yesterday sometime."

"Yeah, getting caught by humans. You know damn well he doesn't have that dagger out unless he needs it."

This time, it was Dean's turn to sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, I know." He fell silent then, worried thoughts over-riding the constant irritation provided by the drizzling fog. He didn't speak again until he yanked the Impala's driver's side door open. "This could be bad, Sammy."

"You think all this is related?"

"Don't have a doubt about it." Dean slid into the seat, waiting for Sam to do the same on the passenger's side before he continued. "Cas was following up on that family in Niagara Falls, yeah? We end up here on a similar lead, less than a hundred miles away and he shows up just long enough to tell me Raphael's got his eyes on a piece of the staff."

"Then disappears," Sam added.

Silence fell.

"Fuck."

Sam gave Dean a sideways look and nodded.

* * *

Spaghetti was relatively easy to make. Just a matter of boiling water and heating up sauce. If someone wanted some extravagance like meat, then they could damn well make dinner for themselves next time. It was an uncharitable thought but Chris Harris would never follow through. His sister was too young; at seven, Leanna wasn't capable of taking care of herself. She was lucky Chris was around, because their mom wasn't going to a damned thing.

Chris idly stirred the sauce before tapping the wooden spoon against the side of the pot. He glanced over his shoulder at his sister, perched on the edge of a dining room chair and watching him with wide, dark eyes. She wasn't smiling, but at least she wasn't crying. Chris offered her a quick grin and a thumbs-up.

"Almost ready?" she chirped.

Chris nodded, putting a finger in front of his lips to shush her. "Mom's asleep."

Leanna's face fell immediately and Chris regretted saying a word. Let her wake up Mom if it kept her happy, but he knew better. Emma Harris was not a woman who would take kindly to being separated from her dreams. He nodded toward the refrigerator. "Wanna get us something to drink?" he asked quietly. Leanna liked to feel useful and Chris was more than happy to put that to use. She nodded enthusiastically and hopped off the chair.

Chris reached up into a cabinet, stretching on his toes in order to reach the colander sitting precariously on the edge of the shelf. Fingers just barely catching the edge, he grunted as he pulled, then caught it as it tumbled out of the cabinet. Other boys in his class were hitting growth spurts; they'd definitely be tall enough to do this without having to practically climb up onto the counter. But, no. Chris had to be the shortest guy in his class.

He positioned the colander in the sink, deftly sidestepping Leanna as she passed him on her way to the table with two Cokes in hand. "Grab a couple plates from the dishwasher, would ya?"

Leanna nodded, eyes twinkling as she put a finger to her own lips in a mockery of his own actions earlier. Chris rolled his eyes; Mom, in better days, called her "sassy." Chris couldn't find it in himself to disagree. He wrapped his hands around the large pot of water and pasta, nose wrinkling when he realized just how much he'd made. Looked like they'd be eating spaghetti for the next three days.

He glanced over the island and into the living room, where his mom was sprawled out on the couch, hand loosely clutching at her throat and eyes shut tightly. She shifted, her other hand rising toward her forward, and Chris timed his pulling the pot off the stove to her restless groaning, in an effort to drown it out. Leanna didn't need to hear that. Not anymore.

The pot was heavy, far heavier than Chris anticipated. He almost dropped it more than once on his way across the kitchen and getting it up into the sink was a special challenge. Chris thought he had it, once he'd maneuvered the pot into position and started pouring into the colander. But the hot metal was too much for him to hold onto and, with a hiss of air between his lips, the pot slipped from his fingers.

The crash it made when it hit the colander and clattered across the counter and onto the floor was deafening. Chris froze and, in the corner of his eyes, he saw Leanna clap her hands over her mouth, then dart through the kitchen, presumably heading for the laundry room and the back door beyond that. Good for her. Very good for her. Chris wished that he could follow.

He left the pot on the floor as he turned to face the living room fully. His mom had sat upright at the noise, the hand that was clutching at her neck pressed flat against her chest. Red marks streaked across her collarbone, where she'd been clawing and scratching in her sleep. For a moment, Emma Harris simply sat there, staring at something Chris couldn't see – probably something that no one but Emma saw.

_Please go back to sleep, please go back to sleep, please please please… _Chris refused to move, in the vain hope that she wouldn't see him. It wasn't to be, though; Emma blinked sleep from her eyes and turned toward the kitchen. It took a moment for her to speak; her dark eyes danced over the mess in the kitchen, the pot lying on its side among ruined spaghetti and the spreading puddle of water, before fixing on Chris' face. "Christopher Harris."

It was hissed and Chris flinched. That wasn't his mom. She never sounded like that. The tone and timbre of her voice was the same but… but she sounded so _angry_.

"I'm sorry." Chris's words were rushed, tripping over each other in his hurry to get them out. Maybe it would calm her down. He hated this, hated this so damned much. "I didn't mean to. I was just trying to make some dinner. Leanna was hungry and I didn't want to wake you up. I'm just really-"

"Quiet." Emma pushed herself to her feet and strode into the kitchen. On her way past the island, she snagged a towel and tossed it in her son's direction. "Don't just stand there and apologize."

Chris fumbled with the towel before he nodded once. "Right. Yes, ma'am." He'd never called her 'ma'am' before; she'd never demanded it. Never seemed like she even wanted it, but this new woman that looked like his mom seemed to need it. Tears stung his eyes and Chris stalwartly blinked them away. Clean up the mess, then deal with the rest. He needed to find Leanna. Maybe get his mom settled in again. She was happiest when she was sleeping. Then, maybe, he could find something else for he and Leanna to eat.

Silence fell. Emma leaned against the counter, fingers idly drumming her thigh as she stared at nothing. Chris knelt on the floor, tepid water soaking through his jeans, and picked up slippery noodles. He wasn't sure how long he managed. It wasn't too long, because there was still spaghetti on the floor. It was when he glanced out the door in the laundry room and saw Leanna peer around the corner. He shook his head once and pressed his lips together as Leanna disappeared to the outside once again. He glanced at Emma, eyes wide and concerned.

Strange as she was right now, she was still his mother. "Mom?"

Emma blinked, and then seemed to shake herself as she looked at him. Her face softened almost immediately and her brow furrowed as she looked over the mess again. "Oh, baby, what are you doing?"

Chris flinched. It was like she didn't even remember what she'd been doing two seconds ago. "Sorry, Mom."

"Oh, stop it." There was something in her tone, a hardness that Chris had never really heard before all this started. It hadn't even shown up when Dad died; it came in those weeks after, when she started sleeping all the time. Emma pushed off the counter and her hand dropped onto Chris' shoulder.

It didn't seem to occur to her that her own son tensing under her hand was _wrong._

"I don't like being woke up, baby. You know that."

"I know, Mom." Chris dropped a handful of noodles into the pot. "Really, I didn't mean to."

Her eyes grew hard again and Chris ducked his head as he felt her nails dig into his shoulder. "I've got things to do, baby." Her gaze was distant as she slowly turned and made her way out of the kitchen. She stopped suddenly, turned, and pinned Chris with a glare. "No more noise," she hissed – and then she was gone again, muttering under her breath. She picked up a bag from the end of the couch – some green thing from a local grocery store – and clutched it to her chest. Chris remained still until she'd slipped out the front door.

Leanna must have been watched; as soon as Emma was gone, Leanna was back in the kitchen. "Chris?"

Chris didn't need to look up to see the fear and concern in her expression. He was fairly certain it was mirrored in his own. "Don't worry about it, Lee."

And he went back to cleaning the floor.

* * *

The buzzing might not kill him, but Castiel was fairly certain that, after too much time exposed to it, he might find a way to kill himself just to find some measure of relief. He listed to the left, knees buckling under him as the sound intensified to a point where it wasn't simply all around him: it resonated within him. It crushed him, pressing in from all sides until Castiel couldn't pinpoint its source. The sound simply _was_ and he was invading its space. It wanted him gone. He'd gladly leave if he could manage it.

He didn't even know where he was. It was cold here, and wet. A wind whipped at his coat, far from gentle. If he concentrated, he could smell the water – not the tang of salt, but fresh. Maybe that meant he was still close to the lake. He hoped that was the case. Instinct had him flying away from the man who'd discovered him; it seemed so long ago, but somewhere Castiel knew it had only been a few hours. It didn't matter, though. His problem remained the same.

That anxiety was back – one could argue that it never left – and Castiel raised a hand to his chest and pressed, breath caught when he could barely feel his own hand there. Phantom sound was too loud, sight was gone, and he couldn't feel the things around that had grounded him earlier. Slowly, certainly, senses he relied on were fading. His hand fisted in the material of his coat and it was only dimly that he felt the fabric pull across his shoulders, felt his fingers clench.

And still, the buzzing pressed in on him. On his knees, he pressed a hand against his ear, hoping in vain that a simple gesture could ease the pain. He didn't feel the ground underneath him anymore. The buzzing turned to howling; the same he'd heard in that house in Niagara Falls. The wind stopped suddenly, but whether it was the wind dying or his own perception failing, he didn't know. The smell of the water receded, and then was cut off abruptly.

It was as if the world around him didn't exist anymore.

A presence pricked at the corner of his mind and Castiel strained to listen; familiarity bred comfort and that was a presence he knew. Dean's voice formed, nearly incoherent as the words faded in and out.

_…figured a few things out…_

_Raphael's…_

_… Staff. We have…_

Castiel clenched his jaw, brow furrowed, and tried to simply concentrate on Dean's words. When Dean prayed, he would listen. He'd promised himself. He'd promised Dean. But the words and the presence faded, and Castiel couldn't help but feel as if it were ihim/i being pulled away, not Dean. Two more words rose through the void and Castiel held them, replaying them over and over again as the world around him faded to nothing.

_…hang on…  


* * *

_

For too long now, the only sound in the old motel room had been the clacking of laptop keys and the rustling of paper. Dean had elected to look over the files Lim had given them while Sam tried to dig up anything on the family in Niagara Falls. Research mode was nothing new and even research mode in the midst of uncertainty was pretty much par for the course anymore. Sam stopped typing, stopping to lean on his forearms as he looked over the table at Dean, who sat on the bed, files spread out over the tan coverlet.

"You got anything?"

Dean snorted. "One torn apart family. Normal, by all accounts. That is, until they upped and murdered and each other in a fit of… something. No weapons. No warning. Not a damned thing. You?"

"Same." Sam shoved the computer away from the edge of the table and sat back in his chair. "With what we've been given, we know they're connected."

"But not how."

"Not beyond both families dying in the same way and the Staff."

"There's gotta be something, Sam." Dean's voice was hard, edged with frustration as he gestured at the files. "Somebody used the Staff on 'em for some reason. There's a common thread somewhere."

"Not anywhere noticeable," Sam shot back.

"Then _dig_, man."

"You think I'm not? Dude, this isn't easy."

Dean grunted as he pushed himself off the bed. He gathered up the files without a word, as Sam waited for the inevitable explosion. Instead of snapping back, though, he set the files on the table and dropped wearily into the other chair. Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean's muttering, ready to call him on being an ass under his breath, but then the words reached him.

Oh. Praying. Sam waited until Dean started pawing through the paperwork again before he spoke. "You think that's doing any good?"

"Can't hurt," Dean replied and Sam refrained from telling him all the ways that it could. Dean plucked a picture of the DeBarra family – before turning upon each other in supernatural-induced rage – from the pile and held it, looking at it with narrowed eyes. Maybe he was hoping he'd see something. The picture was stubbornly silent. "There's gotta be something."

Sam shook his head. He knew it, but it wasn't there after hours of searching. "What do we do?"

Dean shrugged, still looking at the picture. "Use our awesome fake credentials and pull up everything we can about their lives."

"Paper trails."

"It's all we got."

Sam shrugged and sighed as he dug out Lim's business card. Dean watched for all of two seconds before he stood, abruptly pulling on his jacket. Sam paused in mid-dial and blinked up at him. "Where you off to?"

"Gonna run down this Danny-boy's address."

"He's not gonna be there, Dean."

Dean checked his gun, tucked it away, and started for the door anyway.

"Dean."

"It ain't gonna hurt to check." Dean waved his hand, helplessly gesturing toward the phone and computer. "You do your thing with the paper trail. I gotta do this."

Sam just nodded. Better not to argue.

TBC::


	3. Chapter 3

**_Discordance_**

_Author: Kel_

_Rating | Pairing: M for horror imagery and violence and language | Gen_

_Summary: Another piece of the Staff brings Castiel back down to earth._

_Notes | Warning: Set in a season six AU that draws elements from canon. There is still demonic blackmail but there is also a soul. Basically, Heaven's war comes to earth and Team Free Will must once again do the impossible. Expect more a series of stories set in this AU season six; this is just once piece of an entire universe.

* * *

_

The wood was smooth in her hands. Emma held the piece reverently, cradled in both palms, as she looked at it. Simple and worn, it was incongruous with the true power it held. She hadn't believed at first, when the angel came to her. She never thought her prayers would be answered in such a blatant way. How many people could say an angel visited them, answer tangible and in hand. He hadn't asked for much in return, only a promise that she would do something for him when he asked. Emma had jumped at the opportunity. Of course she'd lay everything down for this chance.

Maybe she should have thought it through a little more carefully. Tears burned her eyes as she stared at the wooden piece. So powerful. The second angel who'd come to her had told her what it was and she couldn't help but feel that rush of power whenever she touched it. Was this what Moses felt when he stood before the pharaoh? Unimaginable power. The Hand of God at his beck and call. It was too much for any one human.

But Emma Harris had been chosen. That's what the messenger of Raphael had said. She was chosen to do these deeds. To seek to put right the injustices to her family. Not revenge; of course not. This wasn't about revenge. Even the angels had told her so, and now she was an agent of the angels, doing what they said a human should do. Humanity was God's favored child, after all. A human had first wielded this power and a human should do so again.

She saw him in her dreams, frightened and in pain, and it scared her. It made her feel like she was the one doing wrong here. She sat on a bench in the park, huddled miserably in her old, too-big coat, and caressed the wooden piece of the Staff. This wasn't right. She had no real qualms about using it to bring justice to the families that had turned on hers, but to use it on someone she'd never seen before and had no quarrel with…

She couldn't do it anymore.

A hand touched her cheek; she didn't move. Fingertips slid over her cheek and a thumb brushed a tear away. "So human." Emma didn't look up. To look into the face of Raphael's messenger with tears in her eyes was to show a weakness that someone chosen shouldn't have. The hand moved until fingers cupped her jaw and, gently, he tipped her head up.

He was smiling at her. He was handsome; blond with a winsome smile and a voice that smoothed over any doubts and fears. His laugh – which she had only heard once – was a simple deep chuckle. His hands were warm, always warm, and there was a sharp look in dark eyes that demanded her attention. He'd never given her a name. He was simply a messenger of the archangel Raphael and that would always be enough for her. This man – this angel – was so otherworldly that Emma had trouble at all believing that he wasn't human, that he was far more powerful than anything else that walked this earth.

She looked at him, but she was unable to do more than glance at his eyes. Her gaze settled on the bridge of his nose instead. She pressed her lips together as another tear welled up. She hated this.

"So vulnerable," he said, and Emma heard the amusement in his voice.

"I'm sorry." God, she sounded so pathetic. "I can't do this anymore."

He moved – as fluid and graceful as always – and sat on the bench beside her, fingers still curled under her chin to bring her gaze around with him. "Do you have doubts, child?"

Emma swallowed back more tears and simply offered the piece of the Staff to him.

"Emma Harris, look at me."

She couldn't disobey; that voice demanded attention and obedience. His eyes bore through her and she could almost feel him cataloging and sorting through her deepest insecurities.

"He will stop you if you don't stop him first."

"Why can't you?" Emma's voice was small and fragile, breaking around the edges.

His hands cupped her cheeks. "Angels are messengers, Emma. This is your calling." He reached down then and wrapped her fingers around the wooden Staff. "This is yours now. It was never meant to be used by anything other than one of God's human children."

Emma looked down at it, at his fingers covering hers. He had such smooth hands, free of calluses. Free of worry. Still, doubt welled in her, even as his words resonated.

"What is said about agents of Lucifer?"

She pressed her lips together and swallowed hard before answering. "They'll appear as angels of light and mercy."

"They will plant seeds of doubt in your mind in any way possible."

Emma glanced up at the angel, her doubt begging her to say something. This needed addressed. "But he's _suffering_."

There was a flash of something dark in his eyes that made Emma recoil, just a little. This surely was not an angel appearing as all light and mercy. There was something there that spoke of vengeance. Cruelty. War. Something dark and twisted but Emma was not afraid. "He plays upon your sympathies."

"But-"

His hands squeezed hers to the point of pain. "This is why you were chosen. You see and feel the injustice in this world. iHe/i has brought this down on humanity. He must be stopped and this is the only way. You must do it." He paused, then uncurled his fingers and patted her hand, with a gentle touch that replaced the insistence of his last gesture. "Haven't you suffered enough? Haven't you all? You can fix this, Emma. All of it."

She looked up, unable to draw a full breath as the weight of her responsibilities settled on her. "I can fix it."

One side of his mouth lifted in a half-smile, one filled not with humor but with satisfaction. "What must be done, Emma Harris?"

"Kill him."

He leaned forward and touched his lips to her forehead. Emma closed her eyes, settling into the turbulent peace that he brought with him. She was God's chosen prophet now. She had the tools and the will to save His people, just like Moses had done with this Staff. "When Castiel is gone, you will rest. I will speak to you in dreams, my dear Emma."

Emma closed her eyes, hands tightening on the Staff. When she opened them again, the angel was gone.

She could still feel the touch of his lips.

* * *

Dean knew he was dreaming the second he opened his eyes and saw the sun glinting off the water, because, damn it, he refused to go fishing in Lake Erie in November. He'd probably die of exposure. He settled back in the canvas chair for a moment, blinking idly at the glistening water. So peaceful out here, but it wasn't quite right. It was as if the dim fog that had surrounded the entire town was invading his dreams. Even the soft lapping of the water against the bottom of the dock was too muted.

He probably didn't need weapons in his dreams but Dean's hand brushed against the small of his back anyway, where his gun would be, as he sat forward. Narrowed eyes traveled across the water and the shoreline, but there was a great pile of nothing to be found.

"Cas?" Dean's voice was questioning, far too light for the situation. It was worth a try; Castiel had resorted to speaking to him in dreams once or twice before. It hadn't happened in a hell of a long time, but this setting was kind of the angel's MO. He got to his feet and made his way up the dock, boot heels thumping dully on the too-pristine wood.

He was one step away from the end of the dock when a hand fell on his shoulder. Dean spun, arm up to force the intruder's hand aside and realized belatedly, when he saw a flash of tan, that he knew that grip far too well. He reached out with his other hand, intending to grab the lapel of that damned coat and caught only air.

Wind swirled around him, as if he were suddenly in the eye of a storm. In the wind, he heard them: Growling, snarling and howling. An electrical buzz that wouldn't stop. Absolutely bewildered, Dean pressed one hand to his ear and blinked at the place where Castiel had been standing. "What the hell?" His words were lost in the echoes of howls.

Then, as suddenly as it all began, it stopped. Dean stood in darkness. Tentatively, he reached out a hand and found that, not only could he not see his fingers, he touched absolutely nothing. It didn't even feel as if he were standing on anything. He simply existed, suspended in some immeasurable field of total blankness. "Well, this isn't creepy." Dean tried moving, only to find that, while he could move, it didn't seem to do him any good. There wasn't even an illusion of movement as he stepped backward. "The hell are you doing, Cas?"

Castiel didn't see fit to answer apparently and that made the sick feeling in Dean's stomach just start gnawing at his spine. He turned, thoroughly creeped out now, arms spread and ready just in case he suddenly needed to defend himself. "Answer me."

Nothing.

"Goddamn it, Cas. _Answer me_."

Still nothing. More than nothing. The blackness seemed to take on a life of its own, pressing and swallowing up anything in it. Dean felt something in him recoil. Then, abruptly, it changed. It wasn't quite sound; it was more like the presence of sound. He didn't hear the howling so much as he just knew it was there. He imagined that, if he stared long enough, he'd see shapes undulating in the darkness. They were circling him, coming ever closer, and the not-sound was enough that his heart was hammering mercilessly. God, he wished he had a shotgun right about now.

He felt it, never saw it. The darkness itself seemed to tense. Dean turned and ducked, one arm coming up to protect himself. Sharp pain racketed up his arm as his sleeve – and the skin underneath – tore soundlessly. His other hand came down on the ground, sending a jolt up through his shoulder.

… Fuck. Wait. _Ground_. Dean blinked as sound rushed in on him again. He stood, confusion flooding him as he looked around. He was, apparently, on the shores of the lake. Hell if he knew if it was actually the same lake they were staying near. His fingers sunk into damp sand before Dean pushed himself up, absently brushing dirt from his hand and then smoothing it over his mangled forearm. He stopped in mid-motion, gaze drawn to the un-marred sleeve. "The hell?" Hurriedly, he pushed the sleeve back and blinked at the smooth skin underneath.

Not that he was complaining but what the hell?

In full hunter mode now, Dean turned his attention outward and his gaze fell on the one building in the vicinity. No trees around, no nothing. It was an old barn that sat on a seemingly endless plain, overlooking a lonely two-lane blacktop and the eerily still lake. Still, colors were muted. Sound wasn't quite there. It was like it wasn't quite in this world.

For a long moment, Dean just stared at it, trying to put his finger on what was off about it, but not quite able to articulate just how… freaking wrong this all was. With a snort, he started toward it, because when one was faced with an impossible situation and there was really only one place that was standing, it was time to look into it. He stopped at the highway, though, hesitant to step onto the blacktop. This was a dream and not seeing any cars coming now didn't mean a damned thing. He looked right and left, then right again, and all he saw was the endless tarmac, disappearing into nothingness on either end.

"Come on, man. Just a highway."

Dean stepped into it, wincing preemptively. He paused when nothing happened, looked both ways again, and then darted across as fast he possibly could. He windmilled to a stop in the opposite ditch, boot splashing quietly in a puddle there, and looked back at the road. Goddamned creepy, that's what all this was. Straightening his jacket and looking down in disgust at his wet boots, Dean kept going.

The field was, in stark contrast to the damp sand and muddy ditch, dry. Dust billowed with every dull footstep and Dean actually took a moment to kneel and touch the ground. The dust felt gritty but even as he rubbed it between his fingertips, it seemed to just disintegrate, like it too was falling victim to the thing that stole all sound and color. Frowning, Dean pressed his palm against the ground.

There was no detail. It was like laying his palm against… nothing. Except there was something there; some muted presence that wasn't quite dirt. It was like an imitation; a cheap imitation of the real thing. Eyes narrowed, Dean looked around, cataloging details that had eluded him during his first perusal. The sky was gray and flat, with no sense of depth. The corners of the barn were a little too sharp. The blacktop was a little too smooth. The water had no wave action; it was just a flat sheet of water. The ground wasn't dirt so much as it was just a flat brown slab beneath his feet. None of it was quite _real_ and that frightened Dean far more than the prospect of crossing the phantom highway. It was all a pale imitation of reality and it struck Dean suddenly: this was what was wrong in Erie. The same feeling he'd had when they'd walked up to the police station.

Something was very freaking wrong here.

Dean moved with purpose now, marching on the barn. The wood should have been rough and splintered under his hand, but the door was smooth, and it opened at a single push, no creaking on its rusted hinges. Inside the barn was no different: angles weren't quite right, corners too sharp, details gone. One flickering light hung from the tall ceiling, but even the light it cast couldn't seem to make any headway; even the light was dull and its edges too defined.

Dean didn't see it all, though, because the one thing he was looking for was in the center of the room.

Castiel, on his knees, was ensconced in a ring of black fire. In stark contrast to the rest of the scene, Dean could make out every detail, every fold of clothing, the way Castiel's hand trembled and his knuckles whitened as he clutched the too-bright silver dagger. After a moment, though, it occurred to him. Castiel wasn't over-defined; he simply was normal in this world of nothing.

Dean grabbed a hoe from the wall then dropped it abruptly as the too-smooth wood registered. Ah, hell, no. He was not using that damn thing as a weapon. He'd use his hands first. "Castiel!" Maybe the damned angel would respond to his actual name, if he refused to say anything at the nickname Dean had bestowed on him.

Nothing doing, though. Dean knelt in front of Castiel, started to reach out over the fire and stopped abruptly. The fire was cold. The black flames weren't creepy enough. No, the fire itself had to be deathly cold. He snatched his hand away, shivering as the cold continued to invade his fingers. He started to pull his coat off to break the circle of fire, worry beginning to eat at him when Castiel showed absolutely no reaction to him being there. He hadn't even looked up; he was still staring at a fixed point on the floor in front of him.

Dean stopped when the jacket was halfway shrugged off his shoulders. The light flickered harshly. When he looked up, he realized he couldn't see the door anymore. That blackness was coming back, swallowing up everything in its path. A quick look around confirmed that he and Castiel were right in the center of it. Or, well, Castiel was; Castiel in his circle of black flame. Dean turned his attention back to the angel, lips pressing together when he realized that Castiel must have sensed the darkness closing in on them. The angel barely shifted and the dagger he held moved very slightly over his thigh.

Castiel had to be sensing the same movement that Dean was. Something very, very bad was in that darkness. Considering the way it had ripped into his arm earlier, Dean wasn't keen on sticking around, dream or no. Dean hurriedly shrugged out his jacket and tossed it over the flame, intent on breaking the circle around Castiel. He didn't expect his jacket to turn to cold ash in his hands. Dean hissed as the cold burned his fingertips and stared in disbelief as the flame never seemed to flicker.

He glanced at the encroaching darkness and then back at Castiel. "Dude, come on. Some response here would be good." His hand twitched, but he pulled it back before he reached over the flame. If his jacket just burst into ash, he was not putting his hand over that. No way in hell.

And then Castiel did respond, suddenly pushing to his feet. The dagger flashed – somehow catching light that wasn't there – as he turned. His wide-eyed gaze danced right over Dean, recognition never once flashing in his eyes. Dean followed his movement on the outside of the circle. "Cas?" He waved his hand in front of his face, staying clear of the fire. "Cas? Come on. You had to bring me here. Means you wanna talk. So start talking, damn it."

The darkness rolled in on them. Dean glanced over his shoulder nervously. The sounds that weren't actually sounds were gathering; the darkness itself was tensing. Dean half-turned, so that his back wasn't facing the incoming black wall. His eyes darted to Castiel again and he really, really wished he had a weapon here. His hands spread, knees bent, and he fell into an instinctive defense stance, because hell if this wasn't going to be bad.

He heard Castiel move and the soft sound of cloth rustling and worn shoes scraping on hard dirt was almost deafening. The darkness swallowed him, moved around him, over him, _through_ him… and stopped.

Waited.

Dean couldn't breathe.

"_Cas!_" The word was forced through a closing throat. No answer.

The darkness crushed him.

Dean spun, desperately throwing an arm out in an attempt to block whatever came at him. Suddenly off-balance, he fell, hands thrown out in front of him blindly to catch himself. The shock of hitting the ground sooner than expected had him blinking back the bright light that stung his eyes.

… Wait.

"Dean?"

Oh. Huh. Dean blinked a few times, staring at his hands splayed out over the carpet. Right. That had been a dream.

"Dean? What's going on?"

Pushing himself up, Dean waved off Sam and, legs shaking a bit, managed to sit heavily on the bed he'd fallen out of. Sam wouldn't take a simple wave so easily, though, and his brother crouched in front of him. "I'm fine, Sam," Dean said, rubbing his cheek.

Sam gave him a skeptical look and pushed to his feet. Dean took a moment to gather his wits about him before he followed suit. Sam had the lamp between the beds on; he must have done that when Dean took his header off the bed. Dean made his way to the table, absently hitting the lamp there as he opened Sam's laptop.

"You wanna answer my question?"

"Stow it, Sammy. Give me a minute." Sam was a genius when it came to borrowing wifi; the computer was already online and ready to go. Dean pulled a sheet of paper from the files close, flipped it over, and began sketching the scene from his dream. Sam leaned over his shoulder, expression somewhere between concerned frown and beyond bitchy.

"We looking for that place?"

"Might be," Dean answered. Sam tapped him on the shoulder; when Dean got up, Sam slipped into the chair, already focusing on the computer screen. "One hell of a dream."

Sam gave him a sidelong glance. Yeah, yeah. Sam was the one who'd done the whole prophetic dream thing.

"Cas," Dean explained, "used to do the dream talking thing. I think he tried again, but it was seriously messed up." He tapped the quick sketch. "That's where he was. Old barn in a field somewhere. Out by the lake, I think."

Sam's fingers stilled on the keyboard. "Anything else? That's the very definition of needle in a haystack."

"There was a highway – two-lane that's seen better days – running between the barn and the lake. Barn itself was kinda rundown. Old. Weathered gray." Dean closed his eyes, trying to recall every detail, and finally just shook his head. "It had a clear view of the lake."

Sam nodded. "Okay. Then we'll look."

Dean sat in the chair opposite him and waited. There'd be no more sleep tonight.

* * *

The voice, Castiel decided, was something of his own imagination: it held the lisping, rolling vowels of the Lucifer's first vessel, the arrogance of Raphael and Uriel, the smooth sharp edge that Meg sported, and the caustic humor that was Zachariah. It made him feel ill. He felt it, like old oil rolling across his skin, when it spoke but he could never find its source. He could never quite hear the words but the intent was clear.

In point of fact, intent was about the only thing that was clear.

The darkness itself grew heavier and heavier; Castiel had once decided that the voice _was_ the darkness – or vice versa – but when something brushed his shoulders and he felt something circle him as it spoke, he discarded that idea. A sensation like trailing fingers brushed over the back of his neck, touch light and leaving lines of fiery pain in their wake. Castiel stiffened and his grip on his dagger tightened. He'd tried to hack at it – whatever it was – and that had simply thrown him off-balance. As soon as he'd stopped, it was back again, its whispers mocking and its touch painful.

It spoke of loss, whispered words of doubt. Words that Castiel couldn't quite hear still spoke of grief and sorrow. Of fear and emptiness and Castiel simply wanted to shut it out. He'd heard all this before, in those dark days before Lucifer was caged again. He'd told himself all these things over and over and over again; he didn't want to hear it now. He didn't want to entertain doubt and fear. The war was going badly for him but so what? He'd learned that, sometimes, simple faith, whether it made sense or not, was the only constant. Sometimes it was enough to win a battle.

A weight settled between his shoulder blades and darkness seemed to push through him. Castiel grit his teeth against the explosion of pain in his chest. Just beyond his reach, he felt them circling him and his mind provided an image all too clear: lips drawn back over blood-drenched teeth, claws scraping hard-packed dirt as they circled, dull yellow eyes alight with the excitement of the hunt, sinewy bodies almost too graceful for what they were. Hellhound was a misnomer; they moved more like cats on the prowl, muscles tense as they slid under the glossy black skin.

The weight abruptly intensified, and it sent Castiel stumbling forward. His dagger spun, no light catching the silver, and felt it hit nothing; it didn't matter. Castiel still tried and he _would_ defend himself. There was a snarl to his left. He turned to meet it, slowly and almost gracelessly as the darkness itself seemed to wrap around his limbs and hamper his movement. Teeth sank into his calf and a solid body slammed into the back of his knee. His leg collapsed and, almost before he knew what was happening, Castiel was on his knees amidst a pack of Hellhounds.

The darkness laughed without sound.

Jaw clenched, Castiel pushed the pain in his chest to the back of mind as best as he was able and tried to push to his feet. Heavy weight settled on him, threatening to send him face-first into the dirt. Somewhere in the laughter-that-wasn't, he heard whisperings of defeat.

To borrow a phrase: No way in hell.

Castiel reversed his grip on the dagger and waited. His breath came in shuddering gasps as the weight pressed in on him and the pain sent fiery claws into his limbs. Those phantom fingers brushed the back of his hand and his hand twitched as he fought to keep a grip on his weapon. His chest was being torn apart from the inside; he was almost certain of it. He had no illusions that the Hellhounds wouldn't start that process from the outside at any moment.

And then there was a respite in a sudden moment. Everything stilled: sound and movement that was always just on the edge of his perception stopped. The pain that had been spreading through his chest pulled in on itself. The darkness itself seemed to draw in a breath of terrible, joyful anticipation. Castiel himself stilled, waiting in silence for what would come next.

Long fingers, slick with sweat and blood, settled on the back of his neck. He felt the simple brush of air as a single word was whispered into his ear.

_Fear._

It was an explosion. Chaos enveloped him as the Hellhounds suddenly began moving again, their barking snarls louder than ever before. The cold weight stole his breath. The pain expanded from a simple pinprick in the center of his chest to something that snatched away all rational thought. Castiel felt himself pushed and pulled into a million different directions, unable to find any constant beyond confusion. Beyond pain.

He was frightened.

There was no logic in the way his mind fled, nor in the way he tried – and failed – to find something to ground himself. He flittered from one thing to the next, only able to latch onto confusion. Half-remembered words echoed in his mind.

_… hang on…_

Castiel did, clawing desperately for the familiar presence behind those words. He knew where they were and, damn it all, right now he was not too proud to ask for help. Fear was a great motivator; a bright burst of determination lifted the darkness long enough for Castiel's mind to find that single thread of light and latch onto it. The familiar image formed in his mind and, in desperation, Castiel reached forward. His hand landed on Dean's shoulder, fingers digging into the worn leather, and he yanked.

He saw Dean's face – the furrowed brow, the surprise etched into his features, the guarded concern in his eyes – and then the darkness pulled at him.

_This is where I am, Dean._

A hound slipped under his guard, blood-coated teeth glinting dully in Castiel's light.

_This is where…_

There was a deep-throated growl and the hound pounced. The darkness wrapped itself around Castiel and tugged him back into its embrace.

* * *

_TBC_

_As always, any and all comments are appreciated_.


End file.
